


The Work Won't Wait

by CountOfEight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, I swear John has the patience of a saint, Sickness, Sulking, workarounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountOfEight/pseuds/CountOfEight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn't think he should have to be humoring John in his current condition but he looked himself over, taking in the the bare feet, the pyjamas and the housecoat, noting also the hair that stuck up at wild angles, the ashen skin, and the dark circles which rimmed his eyes.</p><p>"I fail to see a problem."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Work Won't Wait

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago, but I've just found it and touched it up a tad. Sorry it has nothing to do with anything I was supposed to be working on. xD

John slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned to address the man-shaped lump that was currently occupying the whole of the sofa.

"That was Lestrade. He's sending someone with a car--unmarked, before you pitch a fit."

"Why can't we just take a cab? We always take cabs. How is this any different?"

"Because no cabbie deserves that. I doubt we could even find one that would take us."

Sherlock looked puzzled and John couldn't even enjoy it. He resisted the urge to throw his hands in the air. "Are you even aware of how you look?"

"It's not important."

"Not impor-- no. Go look at yourself."

"John, I really don't--"

But John had grabbed him by the collar and was dragging him toward the washroom. "Look," he said exasperatedly, positioning his friend before the full-length mirror on the door.

Sherlock didn't think he should have to be humoring John in his current condition but he looked himself over, taking in the the bare feet, the pyjamas and the housecoat, noting also the hair that stuck up at wild angles, the ashen skin, and the dark circles which rimmed his eyes.

"I fail to see a problem."

Now John _did_ throw up his hands. "Sherlock, you've got a bucket tied round your neck with a bit of string, for heaven's sake!"

"It's practical," he insisted petulantly while making his way back into the living room. "How can I hope to get anything done if I'm constantly dashing off to the nearest toilet every time my stomach decides to be inconvenient?"

"Yes, you're very clever, but we're waiting for the car. Neither of us knows where the crime scene is, and even if we did," he hurried before the detective could interrupt. "There is no way I'm getting into any sort of public transport with you while you're dressed like that, so unless you want to change--"

Sherlock snorted.

"I thought as much. Anyway, Lestrade is calling you in on this more as a favor to me than anything. He doesn't actually know what it's like to be cooped up with a tetchy, bored, and ill you for days on end, but he said he can imagine. So if you want this case at all you'll sit down, shut up, and _wait for the car_."

Sherlock stalked over to the sofa and flung himself down moodily, the bucket clacking to the side in a most undignified fashion. He spent several minutes eyeing John morosely to no appreciable effect, and then instead opted for flipping over haughtily and sulking into the pillows.

When the sounds of the car pulling in finally reached them he rolled over and fixed John with a baleful glare.

"If that's Anderson," he said slowly, and with a depth of sincerity that John had yet to hear from him. "I am going to throw up."

"Good job you've got a bucket, then."

 

~End~


End file.
